


Echo

by trufflemores



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Speed Force
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-12 01:28:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7915048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trufflemores/pseuds/trufflemores
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 25, 2024: Barry dies; The Flash continues to visit Iris.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Echo

**Author's Note:**

> You may want to familiarize yourself with my 'Barry vs. The Flash' theory going into this fic. http://trufflemores.tumblr.com/post/142335688896/trufflemores-this-guy-right-here-this-is-the
> 
> In essence: Barry and The Flash are distinct entities. When Barry "dies" in his 2024 universe, The Flash comes back to visit Iris.
> 
> Also: it's been a while! I hope you guys enjoy; I had a great time writing this fic.

It's two PM, and there's a summer storm on the horizon.

Iris can feel it. Expectation fills the air, saturating her lungs. She walks away from STAR Labs confidently, knowing that the first drops of rain are still distant. The breeze on her arms is a welcome recourse to the refrigerated air of the Labs. It's never truly cold inside, but it doesn't smell like the earth, it doesn't taste like storms. It doesn't have the impression of Barry's warmth, anymore.

It's been three years since The Crisis.

The tightness in Iris' throat has nothing to do with the stress of too many articles to write in scarcely enough time.

She misses him like rain, starved for three years of something she didn't think she could live without. Antarctic, she has endured, persisting no matter how cold the trail grows, how unlikely return becomes. It's more challenging to survive, and she knows that finding someone else would help ease the suffering, alleviate the crushing loneliness in the times in between. She wants someone to love her like he loved her. But she still wants him, and he is not gone.

Iris wanders, knowing she should seek shelter, reconnect with a world that still exists, but she misses the way lightning sounds. Not in cloud bursts – but tangible on a different sensory level, a primordial echo of the very spark of existence. _Let there be light_ , she thinks, waiting. Impatient, almost.

But for it, she'll wait centuries.

She walks past Jitters, then pauses, doubles back. Stepping inside, she smiles at the barista Kayla – _mind if I?_ with an absent-minded gesture towards the stairs; a familiar sad look is her knowing reply – before she steps onto the rooftop.

She stands there, out of reach, and closes her eyes. Expectant.

Quietly aware of its presence at her back. Gratitude floods her chest. Opening her eyes, she turns to look at it.

The shadow lingers in the space, unflappable, but hovering near the door, as if it might vanish again.

Hoping to persuade it to stay, Iris says slowly, "Hey, Flash." She blinks, and suddenly it's Barry, suited up, mask down, watching her with unceasing attention. His lips twitch in an almost-smile, like he wants to say her name. If she looks away from him, she sees only the shadow; directly, her Bar.

She doesn't look away, advancing slowly across the roof. Like a dream she alone gives life to, she reaches out and traces her fingers down his arm, feeling the substantiality of skin underneath the suit. It surprises her to feel his chest rise and fall with each measured breath. Flash doesn't speak – maybe can't; Iris has never decided if it's choice or circumstance which dictates the muteness – but Barry wraps his arms around her, hugging her to his chest.

"Hey, Bar," she whispers, holding onto the edges of his suit, grounding him in reality.

She feels Flash exhale, squeezing her gently. A hand grazes across her back. _I'm so sorry_ , it seems to say, gently pulling away. With great effort, it detaches completely, stepping back, insubstantiality threatening to take over. Gray licks the edges of Barry's suit.

Looking down for a moment, demurring, Barry lifts his gaze once more and meets her eyes. He says, very simply: " _We miss you._ "

Tears carve tracks down her cheeks. "I miss you," she murmurs, reaching for him. He lets her, unable to force himself away when she tucks herself against his chest and locks her hands around his back. "I miss you."

" _Iris_ ," he whispers, tortured.

She closes her eyes.

He's gone before the first real rumble of thunder.

. o .

It's her birthday.

Technically, it's four minutes after midnight on her birthday, but that's the moment a cool breeze draws Iris from a sound sleep. She's up and on her feet and Flash is there, utterly featureless but radiating something golden as it steps across the room. "Flash," she breathes, reaching for it, and an older Barry emerges, well-built, silver in his hair, maybe fifty, maybe five hundred, they never resolved how slowly speedsters aged because Barry didn't live that long—

" _I'm right here,"_ Barry tells her. " _I'm right here_."

She doesn't leave his arms, lying on the mattress beside him till late morning, sunlight streaming in, feet tangled in his, smothered in his warmth. He's heavy and golden and not-hers, never-hers, but he's a Barry and she needs him.

She needs some version of _him_.

Older Barry kisses her temple gently, lingering, and fades before the first tears fall.

. o .

A month passes. Iris aches for a new visit, restless, chafing under sunny skies and perfect forecasts. She needs a storm. She needs something to break up the monotony, to shatter the calm, to shake the earth.

It finally arrives when a car rushes a light and shatters a biker in its path.

At least, that's the story that unfolds in some reality, some world where the bolt of lightning doesn't emerge from the blue, cutting a brilliant path that is there and gone before anyone sees it. All they see is the moment of impact, bike flying, its owner dazedly sitting on the curb on the opposite side of the street. The driver emerges, apologizing profusely, frazzled and urgent. Iris stares at them, scanning the sidelines, looking for –

Flash.

Standing guard, one hand reaching out to slow the spinning wheel of the abandoned bike to a gentle halt, ignored by the bystanders.

Iris stares at Flash, eyes burning, needing substantiality, but then she blinks, and it's gone.

. o .

Sometimes, Flash visits her at CCPN.

It's late, late enough she doesn't even look up, and it settles in the seat opposite her and picks up a paperweight, almost-human, before she finally looks up and sees _him_.

He's so young, maybe twenty-four, almost half her age, grinning a little like he can't quite understand it, either. " _Hi_ ," he tells her, reaching out, and she tucks her hands in his as he runs his thumbs over her knuckles wonderingly. " _You're so beautiful_."

She's tired, tired enough that she doesn't say anything, just lets him reach up and cradle her face in his hands like she is a revelation to him. As if his mere presence isn't a reminder of something broken and beautiful and terrible all at once.

"I miss you," she whispers.

He leans over and kisses her forehead, sweet and simple, and tells her, " _I'm always here, Iris_."

Flash sits back, and Iris closes her eyes, unwilling to watch it disappear.

. o .

Once, Iris finds Flash at Henry's grave.

Standing there, Flash remains still for a long time. It doesn't change or morph or say a word when she steps up beside it. There is nothing for her to rest a hand on, no voice to speak, no ears to listen, no heart to truly ache.

But something is aching within it, regardless, a pain so profound it resonates across the bond that Barry and it have.

"He was such a good man, Flash," Iris says, addressing the unmoving shadow. "He loves you."

When Barry finally emerges, he is tear-stained, hunching inward like it won't hurt if he doesn't _look_ , and Iris steps forward and hugs him tight, hugs him like he needs it, for once. Hugs him like he's the one slowly bleeding out over the impermanence of it all.

"It's okay," she tells him as he shudders against her, "it's okay."

She doesn't know how long they stand there, holding on.

When Barry vanishes, The Flash stays sentinel for hours longer. A darkling sky draws Iris homeward, reluctant to leave but knowing that Barry is already gone.

At the edge of the cemetery, she looks back.

She can still see it, a shadow in the twilight, glowing faintly gold. It lingers for a moment longer, engaged in some communication she cannot hope to understand, and then – faster than the blink of an eye, that glow becomes a streak of light across the night, vanishing over the horizon before the afterimage fades from Iris' eyes.

. o .

Four years after Barry's disappearance, Iris adopts.

Leila is not simply the light of her life; she is the light of _theirs_ , Barry's warm pride almost palpable from a universe away. Iris finds joy in the endeavor, finds joy in the blank spaces in her life that were once reserved for a husband, a partner. She finds joy in being alone, again, but also joy in raising a daughter. Someone to hug and nurture and watch, entranced, as she becomes more and more animated.

Wally is a great uncle, Dad is euphoric, and Iris is happy.

She tells herself it every night as she falls asleep. She's happy.

She's happy.

. o .

In mid-October of her forty-first year, fully six years since The Crisis, Iris sees Flash again.

Standing in the middle of the street, the red-suited speedster staggers, lightning trailing it flickering like fireflies, in and out of focus, and panic twists in her stomach because she doesn't know the reason but something is _wrong_. Her breath quickens as she runs towards it, heart lunging to her throat as Flash sinks to a knee on the pavement.

It's only then, Flash's chest quivering with every breath, that she realizes that there is no gray edge to its shoulders. The green eyes that look up at her aren't Flash's at all.

There's a slow, belated clarion cry – _is that –_ and Iris gets up next to Flas—Barry, _Barry_ , and tugs a trembling arm over her shoulders, pulling him up. She helps him stumble a few steps and then in the blink of an eye, they're on the outskirts of the city, her arms lowering him gently to the grass. There's blood spattered across her shirt and she reaches for his suit, searching, worried.

There's a damp patch on his left side, a gaping wound.

" _Iris_ ," he breathes, tired. " _Iris_ ," he pleads, holding up his hands, and she kneels in front of him. Peeling back the cowl, she lets out a dry sob at the golden eyes.

 _Don't go,_ she pleads.

Knowing he can't help it, she cradles his face. His own blood-stained fingers wrap delicately around her elbows. Stroking his cheeks, she rests her chin on top of his hair, still downy soft like a memory.

"I'm right here," she tells him softly, rocking him lightly as the strength eases from his grip. "I'm right here, Bar."

When he disappears at last, he takes every trace with him.

The blood is gone, but she still destroys the shirt.

. o .

The first visit startled her.

Not because she hadn't met Flash before – she'd been married to Barry for eight years and known Flash just as long. Flash is present for every moment, a warm, peripheral reminder in all of Barry's hugs, his affectionate smiles, the light in his eyes. Every so often, it would startle her to see Flash's eyes, half-lidded with Barry's sleepiness as he stroked a hand down her arm, gentle and reverent, unaware that his two selves weren't split so perfectly down the middle. It wasn't always clear who was in charge: sometimes, it was Flash, the lightning invading his sleep and dragging him from a restless night for a run; other times, it was Barry, hugging a terrified four-year-old, the red suit the only barrier between them as firefighters take care of the car. She learned to live with both of them – the moments when he had to go, and the moments when he stayed.

The first visit didn't surprise her because it wasn't Barry. It startled her because she didn't think the two souls could split at all, convinced that there was a necessary _Barry_ -ness to Flash that made it real at all. To her, Flash was air, real but insubstantial, without Barry's grounding presence. Flash couldn't hug or speak or laugh, couldn't love her.

That was all Barry.

Without him, there shouldn't have been The Flash.

But there it was, standing by the desk where Barry used to work. She had never seen it before, but she recognized it on a different level, tactile, like a breath of air from another universe, a place she'd been before.

That was where it was from – or so, she surmised. Another place. The Speed Force. She didn't know why it came, or why it left so quickly. But she never chased it off.

Every night for the better part of a year, she wrote articles about it. _Flash missing_ , she murmured into the electronic abyss, _no sign of return_. Sometimes Flash would sit next to her while she wrote.

The irony didn't escape her.

She didn't tell Dad or Wally or anyone, didn't have the heart to explain that it wasn't him – not really – but it was some version of him. Like an echo. Like a message across too many worlds.

Only one intermediary could cross the barriers separating their worlds: Flash.

There was a continuity to Flash's presence that helped her adjust to the otherworldliness of it all. Barry changed – some versions of him were younger than she was, some were much older – but Flash was always the same, predictable, at attention. A culmination of every version of Barry. A friend, collaborator, and partner throughout uncountable eons.

The last guardian of _her_ Barry.

Sitting on the porch, she watches Leila play hopscotch with the girl next door on one of the last warm days of autumn, wondering if she'll ever stop missing him.

. o .

On the tenth anniversary of The Crisis, Central City holds a Flash day.

Suitably, Flash makes an appearance – not to the solemn masses, but to the removed witness reading under a comfortable tree. Iris doesn't even look up, doesn't move, relaxing when Barry rests his head on her knees, lying in the grass next to her. One hand tangles in his hair, anchoring him; the other turns pages, weaving stories that pale next to whatever universes he sees, whatever lifetimes he experiences.

 _You're not real_ , she tells herself, brushing her hand through his hair. No one mourns Barry Allen on this day. They don't know that they're supposed to.

They mourn his double, the peaceable emissary at her side, and live in imperishable ignorance that Barry had anything to do with it.

He's her age, maybe slightly older, and she thinks about his birthday, how she wants to bake a cake, wants to celebrate it, wants to take him out with Leila.

Instead, she stays still, breathing shallow, not wanting to ripple the water.

When he's gone, Leila asks, "Mom?"

Iris lets her hand graze the grass where he was just once, and then she closes her book and says, "Hey, baby." Getting up, she turns towards the open door and can't help but marvel – "When did you get so tall?"

Leila gets a hug, too, and Iris holds onto the fact that when she lets go, her daughter doesn't disappear.

. o .

It's twilight, dark enough that no one sees the yellow streak tear across the landscape.

No one, that is, except Iris.

Skidding to a halt in front of her, the speedster exhales hard, the trail still glowing faintly in his wake.

"He would have loved this," Wally says, standing at the edge of the open field and grinning like a fiend. "This is amazing. I can't believe—" He shakes his head, struggling to encapsulate it.

She's forty-seven, he's forty-six, but they feel half their age.

Because Wally can _fly_.

"He would have," Iris agrees, not saying what cannot be said.

When Flash wants to meet Wally, it will.

. o .

It's a joke. An article crops up on her feed one day.

" _Heir Apparent: 'Kid Flash' Seen On The Streets._ "

Wally loves it.

"Forever young," he insists when Iris asks why he doesn't fight the nickname.

It sticks.

. o .

On the fifteenth anniversary of The Crisis, Central City roars its approval as Kid Flash makes a dutiful appearance for the ceremony in Central Park. He's neither shy nor ostentatious, preferring a demur stance with his shoulders a little hunched, humbled, but a big smile on his face, clearly happy to be part of the festivities. There's a solemnity to it, though: he doesn't have a warm remark to draw out their laughter. He just smiles and accepts the reward that they all know belongs to two.

It's been almost twenty years, but Iris doesn't think she could ever forget the sound as, across decades, the crowds' shouts mingle with each other's, blending together in an uninterrupted stream:

_Flash, Flash, Flash…_

. o .

It's only fitting that her last meeting with Flash is at Jitters. It's their place.

Standing on the rooftop, illuminated by skylines and starlight, Flash watches her for a long time without speaking. She watches it in return, thinking about how unreal her life is, how much she signed up for when she surrendered her heart to a speedster. _Would you have traded it?_

She blinks, and Barry materializes. The answer is immediate: _Absolutely not_.

He walks towards her without saying a word, her Barry, _her_ Barry, and when they hug the tears will not stop coming but Iris holds onto him, regardless.

"Hey, Bar," she says softly, feeling his weight and warmth, clinging to it. "I missed you."

He squeezes her gently, echoing it without words: _I missed you_.

"It's okay," she adds, breathing out slowly and carefully, carefully letting go, stepping away. "It's okay."

" _Iris_ ," he whispers, one last time, her name like a prayer on his lips.

"You can let go," she tells him, tears on her face but steel in her voice, needing to be strong. "You can let go, okay?"

As if she must say it to both of them. _Let go, Barry._

 _Let go, Flash_.

They step in for one last, lingering hug, a gentle kiss against her cheek, and as he exhales she feels him fade away, one last time.

. o .

Standing alone on the rooftop, Iris closes her eyes and presses her hands into fists for a long, long moment, unable to move. Unable to stand being alive. She digs her nails into her palms, trying to ground something in reality that isn't sheer, raw, breaking pain, but it does nothing. It's useless: her skin is numb, her mind is, too.

But the Ghost is at peace, at last, and she feels something in her shoulders slowly settle.

She feels something in her heart finally, finally come to rest.

. o .

That night, alone, she lays a yellow rose at Flash's grave, in remembrance, in thanks, for a lifetime beyond thirty-five-years.

. o .

Late in the afternoon on the next day, with Wally at her side, she lays three red roses at Barry's.

One for Dad. One for Leila.

 _One for me_.

Wally adds a white rose to the center, stepping back, hands folded at attention behind his back, head bowed. Reverent.

The first rumble of thunder makes her smile, and cry.

. o .

_Coda: nine months later._

A time passes without excitement, without adventure, and then, literally breathless, Wally bursts into CCPN at two in the afternoon.

The CCPN reporters don't bat an eyelash at Kid Flash's presence, smiling familiarly, a couple, _Hey, Flash_ es greeting him. Wally ignores them for a change of pace, doubtless drawing curiosity, but before it can advance into speculation there's a blur before Iris is standing with him on the outskirts of the city.

"I found him," he says, his breathlessness an excitement that seems ready to burst out of his skin, proud and pleased and nervous, all at once. "Iris. I found him."

She wants to say it.

She doesn't dare say it.

At last, she manages a dry-mouthed, "Where?"

"Far," Wally says, frowning at himself and shaking his head. "I don't know. It's not a place."

 _Speed Force_.

"Wally," she warns, putting a hand on his forearm. Restraining.

"It's okay," Wally assures her, pulling her into a quick hug. "I got this. Let me – let me talk to him."

Iris inhales deeply, holding it for a count of ten, and then exhales. Nods.

She knew the day would come, when Flash would want to meet Wally.

Wally says, "I'll be back" and he's gone, taking off across the field.

. o .

When he returns – it's dark, now, and Iris' heart is pounding with relief when she sees the flash of yellow light – he's not alone.

There's a yellow-suited speedster next to him, and for a moment panic latches onto Iris' throat because _Wally, Wally that's not him that's Reverse you brought him back you—_

" _Iris_ ," Barry says, and Iris' heart stops, relief and shock flooding her in equal measure. "Iris," he repeats, slowing to stillness, the final edges of Speed Force tapering into visible oblivion, never far under his skin but out of sight.

Wally says, "Took me a while; the suit threw me off" and Barry makes an apologetic noise but Iris doesn't hear either of them.

She runs – runs like it hasn't been almost twenty years, like she hasn't missed a lifetime without him, like _I just woke up_ – and he catches her.

He smells like wood and ash and earth, human, whole, and the way he squeezes her is not like Flash: it's gentle and familiar, easy, _I-missed-you_ without the edge of desperation, without the cancer of limited time, the shadow of always knowing that _we're running out of time_.

Wally stands aside and bears witness and Iris can't believe – it's him, it's _him_ , her Barry, the one who says, "I'm so sorry" and "I got lost" and hugs her like all and none of them. He's babbling, explaining that he stole the suit after Reverse died – long story – because he needed to lie low, there was another, younger Barry and that's an even _longer_ story, but she hushes him with a "Bar, _Bar_ ," taking his head in her hands and saying, "it's okay."

He looks at her, and for the first time, it's like he sees her, lighting up. The literal glow in his eyes feels like family, like home, because she can see _Flash_ , too, the one she knows best, the side that is recognizable, familiar, unique to _her_ Barry.

He slides his hands slowly down her arms, looping them around her waist, staring at her in silence, awe.

On the same wavelength, Iris understands Flash's sometimes unending silence, letting her cheek rest against Barry's chest, eyes closed. Nothing needs to be said. In a way, nothing can be.

Barry's fingers trace her back, and there are years – lifetimes – to catch up on, but it doesn't matter.

Because when she opens her eyes, he's still there.


End file.
